


Calm Amidst the Storm

by captainskellington



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Mutants, M/M, This does have some Marvel influence I'll admit but on the whole is not an X-Men AU, there is a lot of talk of pain and some mentions of violence so warnings for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2302685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainskellington/pseuds/captainskellington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is a mutant. His mutation? He feels pain. Everybody’s pain.<br/>Grantaire, Enjolras doesn’t understand. Grantaire infuriates and confounds Enjolras.</p><p>In a world of mutations and hostility, somebody has to fight for change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calm Amidst the Storm

 

For Enjolras there was no sudden realisation, no unwelcome surprise, no startling reveal. It wasn’t a shock to find out that he had a mutation, because he’d always had it.

As an infant he had cried constantly and doctor after doctor had tried to figure out what was wrong with him to no avail. His parents had been terrified, wondering what in hell could be wrong with their child that he was always in such constant, overwhelming pain.

By the age of four he’d managed to reign it in, to an extent. It was no longer debilitating, crippling, he wasn’t a slave to it. He could go about his day and sit through school without so much as a hiccup, with nothing but the perpetual buzz of agony gnawing at the back of his skull to remind him of his burden.

He didn’t mind, not really, not at first.

Because he realised he had this problem, that he always had and probably always would.

But what he hadn’t realised was that he was the only one.

When he absentmindedly mentioned it to his mother one day when he was about six, he wasn’t expecting her face to drain of colour. He wasn’t expecting her to stop making the dinner and call for his father. He wasn’t expecting to be gently interrogated by the two of them then driven immediately to the nearest clinic for testing.

He’d been so confused. All he’d said, in passing, was “The pain, that constant pain, is it supposed to get worse when people bleed? Because Celine got a paper cut in art class and it all got a little worse.”

 

* * *

 

Enjolras is a mutant. His mutation? He feels pain. Everybody’s pain. All the time, night or day, no matter where in the world he is. He feels every ache and sob and cut and burn and illness, every drop of despair and guilt and hopelessness and fear and desolation.

He felt when a girl in his class fell from a climbing frame and broke her arm. He felt the fear people experienced when they found out what he was (it wasn’t supposed to be public knowledge, but it happened). He felt his mother’s grief when his father died.

He always lived as far away from hospitals and cemeteries as was physically possible, for the sake of his health.

He doesn’t know how far ranged his power is. In his early teenage years he briefly considered running away from home to somewhere nobody could find him, where it wouldn’t hurt merely to exist any more.

But then he started to take it personally.

He got angry.

The poverty, the corruption, the unnecessary hurt in the world. The irrational and entirely unreasonable stigma of mutation. It could all be stopped, but nobody was stopping it.

So he started to fight.

 

* * *

 

They call themselves Les Amis. Initially it was a sneer of sorts on Enjolras’ part, bitter and mocking.

“The Friends”; who would want to be friends with a _mutant_?

As it happened, a surprisingly large fraction of the population.

Some of them are like him, mutants, but some are simply decent human beings campaigning for change. Enjolras doesn’t even know for certain who fits into which category, they don’t force anyone to out themselves. It’s totally up to the individual.

Combeferre was the first mutant Enjolras ever met, and it was with him and Courfeyrac that he started the group. There must have been other mutants nearby throughout Enjolras’ school years, but his parents had done their best to isolate him from other children so he wouldn’t experience quite so much pain.

Combeferre considers his mutation a gift. Without it his cloudy blue eyes would render him entirely sightless, but his sonar abilities mean he can see almost everything in perfect detail, and his hearing is exceptional. Enjolras does sometimes catch him leafing wistfully through books, glancing longingly at the screens of TVs, computers, tablets. Combeferre has an insatiable love of learning but has never been able to read, and Enjolras knows he loathes himself for it.

He can feel it.

Courfeyrac, Combeferre’s partner since before Enjolras met either of them, has no mutations to speak of, but is singularly the kindest and most caring individual that Enjolras has ever had the pleasure of knowing.

Then came the others.

Jehan, a quiet man who drains or boosts the life force of everything around him depending on his mood; he can’t control it but he tries to channel it away from human beings, instead causing surrounding plant life to spontaneously wither or bloom whenever his emotions peak. His frustration will be his downfall, if he doesn’t get it under control.

Feuilly has no mutations, but lost the lower half of his left leg in an incident involving a mutant in his childhood. He holds no bitterness or anger, completely understanding of the fact that they most likely had no control over what they were doing and were probably terrified. Besides, he says, the prosthetic makes him feel like a pirate.

Cosette is mute by choice. For her to speak is for all around her to fall under a siren’s spell. She calls it her curse, scribbling the words on the dry erase board she carries with her at all times the first time she meets Enjolras. She hasn’t spoken since she was three.

(Marius falls in love with her anyway.

Enjolras always finds it strange how much pain can come with love.)

Marius, Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Eponine; Enjolras doesn’t know one way or the other. They’re there and they’re supportive and they’re genuinely lovely people, that’s all he asks for.

Eponine’s little brother, Gavroche, on the other hand, can turn invisible at will and is an absolute nightmare because of it. The only people who have a handle on him at all are Courfeyrac (and then only at times), and Grantaire.

Grantaire, Enjolras doesn’t understand. Grantaire infuriates and confounds Enjolras. Grantaire began showing up at meetings around about the same time Joly and Bossuet joined (though whether he was with them Enjolras had never managed to figure out, as he curiously seemed to know everyone in the group already by the time Enjolras spotted him) and has never contributed anything substantial in all his months of attending the meetings.

Enjolras still remembers the first time he saw him; he himself had entered the room late due to traffic issues (he’d felt the sharp twang of agony then the distressing numbness of the civilian who’d been hit and the chill had followed him all the way there) and walked headfirst into this stranger, laughing at something Enjolras hadn’t heard.

“Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” Enjolras had apologised. Instead of replying “no problem,” or something similar, the man had taken a sharp intake of breath and staggered backwards as if struck, all the colour draining from his face.

He’d stared at Enjolras for a moment, shaking his head and looking absolutely horrified at something; what, Enjolras couldn’t work out.

“I need a drink,” he said then, and turned to stumble blindly towards the bar, leaving Enjolras quite hurt and confused as to just what he’d done wrong. So confused, in fact, that the constant flood of pain in the back of his head eased ever so slightly, so much so that he could barely feel the sickened aura that the man - Grantaire - was emanating.

Enjolras never has asked him whether he’s mutant or not.

 

* * *

 

“We must be doing some good,” Enjolras admits to Combeferre late one night as they’re going over details for a fundraising event planned for the upcoming week. The other man raises his eyebrows at him and motions for him to continue.

“The pain isn’t as bad any more,” Enjolras says quietly. His own mutation is still not exactly public knowledge, and he intends to keep it that way. He doesn’t want pity. (Across the street, someone is crying out for a lost friend. Nobody but Enjolras can hear them.) “Either we’re doing good, or the world’s getting to be a slightly better place.”

He isn’t lying. He can still acutely feel the sting of Bossuet’s splinter, the ache in Feuilly’s knee, the curiously hollow sensation that seems to be ever present around Grantaire. He can still work out where Gavroche is (playing with the stray cats in the alley behind) when he stubs his toe on something.

But the rest of the world seems to be somewhat at peace, or at least something less of the raging sea of torment that Enjolras has become accustomed to over his twenty some years of life.

When he looks up, Combeferre is watching him carefully with that gaze of his that would be unnerving even without his unusual eye colour. His friend simply shrugs. “I can’t tell you what you’re feeling. Maybe you’re right.”

For some reason, Enjolras isn’t quite so convinced any more.

(The lie feels cold in Combeferre’s stomach.)

Mankind may be improving, but the struggles for mutantkind only increase.

They're pushing for a registration act again, those old bigots that lurk beneath the banner of "politician". It's a disgusting invasion of privacy and Enjolras is _furious_. Him and the rest of the Amis.

Riots are breaking out on both sides. Mutants and their allies protesting the act, the others protesting pretty much the entire existence of mutants.

(Fear. Stress. Anger. Sickness.

Ignorance spawns its own breed of pain.

Enjolras begins to buckle.

He forgets what it’s like to breathe easily.)

 

* * *

 

“And what is it to you?” Grantaire shouts. Grantaire doesn’t shout. Grantaire is civil, if at times irritating. Grantaire is respectful.

(Grantaire is _hurting_. Pain floods through Enjolras like a burst dam.)

“Grantaire,” Combeferre moves between them with a warning glance at them both. Enjolras ignores him, ice in his veins. Grantaire simply doesn’t care; alcohol runs in his.

“What is it to me? Just what do you mean by that?”

Grantaire screws his eyes shut, spits the words through gritted teeth as if every one is a pin pricking his tongue. “Pretty little rich boy, thinks he can save the world. What is it to you? What do you gain from this? Why don’t you just jet off to some island somewhere nobody can burden you with their inconvenient injustices and unhappiness?”

Enjolras would feel the lack of truth if he himself weren’t so hurt, so angry. Something isn’t right with what Grantaire’s saying, but at times like this Enjolras’ agony gets caught up in the rest of the world’s and he just can’t differentiate between what he’s feeling and what he’s being force fed.

(Combeferre’s anger is a pain in itself as he sprints from the room and into the street, tears blurring his vision. Sharp heat flares across Grantaire’s face and the palm of Cosette’s hand as she slaps him, fury in her every limb, as Enjolras sinks to the ground outside his flat and vomits into the gutter.

If only you knew, Grantaire.)

 

* * *

 

"He didn't mean it."

(A man fears for his life as a gun is pressed to his head. He hands over his wallet; rather that than his life.)

Enjolras feels rude having the television on when he knows how Combeferre feels about them, but he's still clinging to the faint possibility that the lights and movement and sounds will distract him from the war going on in his head.

(It doesn't. Grantaire's yells have shattered a wall and the pain is battering Enjolras' entire being worse than ever.)

"Does he know?" Enjolras stares blankly at the screen. He's curled tight on the sofa, knees pressed to his chest, Combeferre at his side.

(A young girl sobs into her pillow, utterly desolate. The cruelty of children knows no bounds. Enjolras' grip on his shins tightens.)

Combeferre is silent for a moment. "It's not my place to say."

Combeferre knows about Enjolras' mutation. Courfeyrac, Cosette, Feuilly, Jehan. Maybe Joly.

"Does he know?" Enjolras repeats, throat tight from fighting back tears.

Combeferre stares straight ahead. Maybe he's tracking the movement of the birds nesting in nearby trees again. He does that sometimes. His range varies depending on circumstances such as weather, traffic, height.

"Talk to him."

That's all the answer he gets.

 

* * *

 

(There's a shooting in the next town.

Enjolras feels the ricochet before it reaches the news.)

 

* * *

 

He hasn't left the house in three days when there's a knock at his door.

Three days of being completely and utterly incapacitated by this fresh wave of unbearable pain.

(Three days. Two riots. Four muggings. Twelve deaths. One bout of the flu. Innumerable tears, sobs, panic attacks.)

"It's open," he calls shakily when the knocking returns, more urgent. He can feel the void of pain, knows exactly who's about to come through his door.

(No, not a void. Other people are volcanoes, oceans, swirling masses of angst and turmoil. But Grantaire is none of these things; he's a plain, a prairie, a field of long grass occasionally disturbed by wind. Enjolras isn't sure what to make of him. He never has been.)

“Shit,” Grantaire says weakly when he takes in the sight in front of him; Enjolras, wrapped in a ratty old blanket on the floor in front of the couch, staring blindly at the now-muted TV screen, unbathed and not having slept well if at all ever since he’d last seen him.

(It ebbs some. The normal sting of a broken heart is lessened to a light throb.)

Grantaire sinks to the floor beside him. “Enjolras?”

He turns his head slowly. Looks at Grantaire. He doesn’t seem to be doing much better than Enjolras. “That is my name.” His voice is hoarse. When did Combeferre even leave?

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says. “I didn’t mean it, you have to know that.” He drags a hand through his tangled hair.

(It’s receding, slowly receding, like the universe has decided he’s been tortured enough for now. However, Grantaire just seems in ever more pain.)

“You know, don’t you?” Enjolras asks.

“Know what?” Grantaire replies uneasily.

“My mutation. I’m not angry, I won’t ask how you know, I just want to know if you know.”

Grantaire blinks through the convoluted sentence, making sense of it after a moment of thought. “I… I do, yes. Sorry.”

Enjolras shrugs, he’s too exhausted to hold a grudge. “It’s fine. Consider it done with. Just… Never question my personal motivations ever again. Please.”

“I won’t,” Grantaire promises, and Enjolras has just enough time to wonder why he sounds so tired before he drifts off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Eponine can bring people back from the dead.

But only once.

And a single touch sends them straight back to their grave.

Enjolras learns this when she has a panic attack after she loses a glove. Nothing would have come of it, except Marius had gone to help her up and she’d knocked him to the ground with her gloved hand and ran from the room.

He sits next to her at the bottom of the rickety old staircase out the back of the café, and waits.

“He was talking to me,” she eventually explains in a hollow tone. “Just talking, excited about a lecture or a book or-- or _something_ , God, I don’t know, sometimes I just got caught up in his happiness, you know? And he didn’t look where he was going. Walked straight into the path of a car, the fucking idiot. And I just thought… I couldn’t live and not see that smile again. I couldn’t stop myself. I swore after the first time it would never happen again, but I didn’t ever factor him into it.”

“Does he know?”

“God, no. And he never will,” she says pointedly. Enjolras nods, and she sighs. “I can never touch him again, but that’s okay. As long as he’s alive and happy -- and Cosette, she can make him happy -- then I can keep going. I can move on.”

There’s silence for a few minutes. Enjolras peels off his own gloves and hands them to her. She accepts them with a grateful nod.

“Can I ask…” Enjolras trails off. Some things are just too personal to pry into.

“The first one?” Eponine laughs weakly. “I wouldn’t take it back for the world. I only wish he hadn’t grown up thinking I didn’t love him enough to hug him, play with him, pick him up and throw him around like any big sister should.”

(By the dustbin, something freezes. Shock. Horror. Disbelief. Enjolras shoots the offending area a concerned look before it dashes off.

He’ll deal with it later.)

 

* * *

 

Weeks pass. Tensions are mounting. Antimutantism is at an all time high.

Things between him and Grantaire are delicate, but they manage, putting aside any awkward tiptoeing around each other for the sake of the group and the cause at large.

(It has yet to return to that level of intensity, but Enjolras lives in fear. The incapacitating torment had lain dormant for so many years only to flare up at random; who knows when it will strike again?

Constant pain, Enjolras can deal with to an extent. But pile up enough feathers and they’ll weigh the same as a tonne of bricks.

The only difference is how long they’ll take to break him.)

 

* * *

 

There’s a scream. A jolt of white, jagged heat sears through Enjolras’ arm and ribcage and he almost crumples to the ground, Combeferre’s sudden grip being the only thing keeping him up.

This wasn’t supposed to happen, there wasn’t a rally scheduled for today, just a meeting for Les Amis and a few other groups. It was supposed to be quiet, peaceful. They didn’t plan for getting hijacked by extremists.

“What? Who is it?” Combeferre recognises the scream, he must do; he wants to be proven wrong.

(He sometimes wishes he’d never gotten close to people, because nowadays he can tell people apart by their pain. The prickling anxiety that races through Joly’s body, Bossuet’s resigned jolt every time he gains a bruise, Bahorel’s oxymoronical gasping sigh - he believes that if it hurts, it means he’s getting somewhere.

Courfeyrac feels like he’s been dropped head first into arctic waters.)

He’s up and running towards the source of the scream before he’s even back in his own head.

Suddenly there’s an outcry and a whole portion of the crowd presses back and away from something, screaming in dismay.

Pushing through, Enjolras can see why.

Bossuet has fire pouring from his hands, an uncharacteristically ugly snarl marring his features. His eyes glow red as they glare challengingly into the crowd and he stands protectively in front of Joly, who’s crouched over--

“Courfeyrac!” Combeferre cries, sprinting for him. Enjolras follows, rushing to his friend’s side, hyperaware of the stench of fear and agony and loathing that must be tangible even to those without his powers.

His shirt is drenched in blood (knife wound, downward slash, Enjolras’ gut twinges, arm broken too, _I hope Bossuet got the bastard_ ) and it hurts oh god it hurts Courfeyrac is _howling_ in pain, colour drained from his face, and Combeferre is distraught and the crowd around them is in turmoil and Enjolras’ vision is getting worryingly dark and--

There’s a movement to his side and Grantaire’s crouching beside him, face set in a determined expression. He puts a steadying hand on Enjolras’ shoulder (the clouds clear and Enjolras’ world snaps back into focus) and reaches out for Courfeyrac’s uninjured hand.

“Grantaire,” Courfeyrac chokes out through gritted teeth. _“No.”_

“Just this once, Courf,” Grantaire takes his hand. Courfeyrac lets him. Enjolras must have passed out, must be hallucinating or something, because what the hell is going on?

Grantaire’s eyes screw shut and he clenches his jaw, his grip on Enjolras tightening and a sweat breaking out on his forehead. Courfeyrac stops crying out and curls up on his side, holding onto Grantaire like a lifeline.

(The flare is disrupted and it ebbs and flows and vanishes into nothing almost as if it’s being drained. Almost as if it’s being drawn out of Courfeyrac and into--

 _Fuck._ )

“You--” Enjolras’ voice catches. Grantaire’s fingers twitch.

“Later,” he manages to say, voice strangled. “Need… To concentrate.”

Enjolras hesitates. He can see Bahorel in the distance, having called for an ambulance when Enjolras and Combeferre took off, knowing nothing good could come of it.

Not long now.

Enjolras reaches up to take Grantaire’s hand from his shoulder and links their fingers together supportively. “I can manage,” he says quietly. “Focus on him.”

He can _feel_ the moment Grantaire drops his pain and starts siphoning Courfeyrac’s alone. The overwhelming agony of the situation hits Enjolras like a wall of bricks, like the wall of harsh wind and destructive power encircling the eye of a hurricane.

It feels like hours before Courfeyrac is taken away, Combeferre at his side. Enjolras can’t even see it, doesn’t even register moving himself until he’s four streets away with Grantaire’s arm around his waist and they’re stopping to breathe on somebody’s doorstep.

“Enjolras? Okay, yeah, he’s responsive now,” Grantaire’s on the phone to someone - Joly. “I’ll get him back safe, don’t worry. You just focus on Boss and Jehan, the others will make their own way. See you soon.”

“You’ve been taking it from me. You’ve been sharing the pain.”

Grantaire heaves a deep sigh and indicates that they should keep walking. They do. “Can we save this for when we’re both inside and sitting down, Enjolras? It’s been kind of a hard day, you know.”

“Yeah, but just tell me,” Enjolras shakes his head. “Why?”

Grantaire looks him in the eye. “Because the pain of the entire world is too heavy for one man to bear, Enjolras. Even one as strong as you. Besides, what’s the use of a siphoning mutation if you can’t bring somebody a little relief every once in a while?”

“But you hate me,” Enjolras blurts out, head swimming in confusion. Away from the riot and alone with all of Grantaire’s focus on him, the pain is at a minimum, but there’s still so much to take in.

“What?” Grantaire snorts. “Why the hell would you think that?”

“The first time we met you recoiled as soon as you…” Enjolras trails off into sudden realisation. “Oh.”

“I wasn’t recoiling from you, bloody hell. I was recoiling from the giant cloud of desolation that literally covers you from head to toe. It’s like you’re one of those fly strips and all this second hand pain you experience is a bunch of dead flies stuck to you…” He wrinkles his nose. “This is an awful metaphor. But anyway, I’ve been pulling some of those flies off you every day since we met, yes. I don’t hate you. I’ve been trying to help you.”

“At what cost?” Enjolras asks, suddenly brimming with concern. He’s always known that Grantaire wasn’t a bad man, but a man who sees somebody he’s never even met carrying the world on his shoulders and offers to take half his burden is nothing less than the greatest kind of good.

Grantaire shrugs. “Nothing that isn’t worth it.”

“And what about all those digs-- jet off to your private island, that stuff?” Enjolras thinks he knows already, but he wants to hear it from him.

“Desperate attempt to get you somewhere far enough away from civilisation that you didn’t have to be hurting so much. Christ, Enjolras, I was dealing with the tiniest fraction of what you have had to deal with for nearly a quarter of a century and it was driving me mad; I can’t even imagine what it is you have to go through on a daily basis,” Grantaire flexes his fingers, and only then does Enjolras realise that they’re holding hands again. He doesn’t know how it happened, but he tightens his grip anyway.

Enjolras sighs. “You can’t just throw away your health and wellbeing to ease my existence, Grantaire. You’re worth more than that.”

“Enjolras, you can’t exactly stop me. And it at least makes me feel like I’m good for something.”

Enjolras halts in the middle of the pavement, his grip on Grantaire’s hand forcing him to stop with him. “You’re good for a lot of things. Don’t you dare say any different.”

Grantaire snorts. “Not really, Enjolras. But I’m okay with that. I take your pain, I drink to numb your pain, I make some people happy, Joly drinks me under the table. That’s my life. I’m okay with it.”

Enjolras pales. “The drinking. You… I--?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, kid. That was one of my demons long before we met. You have nothing to do with that.”

“If you’re sure,” Enjolras narrows his eyes, not entirely convinced. Grantaire tugs on his hand to get them moving again.

“Come on, almost there.”

They’re done talking.

For now.

 

* * *

 

“Since we’re getting everything out in the open now, I’d just like it to be on record that I can breathe underwater,” is how Bahorel breaks the solemn silence that fills the café.

“ _Please_ tell me you have gills,” Feuilly responds.

“I have night vision,” Marius says quietly. Cosette hits him softly on the arm, eyes wide. “What? It’s not like you asked! And anyway, it’s nothing, really…”

“I know a guy who can actually hypnotise people,” says a patch of air near a flower pot. Eponine glowers at it until Gavroche materialises. “Sorry, sorry, don’t be rude, I got it.”

“If you don’t have gills, do you at least have webbed feet?” with this, Feuilly dives under the table to check. Bahorel squawks indignantly and kicks at him.

“What do you mean, ‘ _know_ a guy’? What have I told you about hanging around with Montparnasse?” Eponine scolds quietly.

Gavroche shrugs. “He’s been in jail less than these guys.”

“That’s not necessarily a good thing, Gav…”

At the back of the room, Joly quietly inspects a dozing Enjolras and Grantaire for any injuries obtained during the protest. Aside from a couple of scratches and bruises, they both seem totally fine.

They’re still holding hands.

 

* * *

 

With Grantaire by his side, Enjolras enters a hospital for the first time in almost twenty years. He grits his teeth against the pain, raises his chin and makes it all the way up to Courfeyrac’s designated waiting area before he has to sit down.

“Breathe,” says Grantaire. He’s looking a little pale himself. Enjolras hates the fact that he’s using him like this, and says so.

“Using me?” Grantaire echoes. He shakes his head and laughs. “Enjolras, you are not using me. I don’t mind. Really, I don’t. It isn’t all that bad, honestly.”

(He still can’t get a read on him.)

Suddenly there’s a commotion, and the waiting room TV gets switched on. Enjolras and Grantaire bristle; they’re discussing the mutant registration act.

“Fucking imbeciles,” Grantaire seethes under his breathe at the politicians onscreen -- you never know who’s in earshot, especially in mixed mutant/non-mutant environment; it’s better to be on the safe side. “Middle-aged non-mutated cishet white men thinking they have the power to decide the rights of people they do not and will not ever understand the lives of. Have they ever suffered a single day’s fear or oppression in their lives? No. Will they ever face the impact of the bills and laws and regulations they pass without a second thought? Never. Who the fuck do they represent besides other rich old traditionalist men who wouldn’t know the meaning of change if it bit them on the ass? Nobody. It makes my fucking blood boil.”

It’s there in the hospital waiting room, in amongst the bustle of patients and nurses in a world that’s about to tip over a precipice into something truly terrifying, that it happens.

In this eye of the hurricane, the oasis in the desert, the calm amidst the storm, Enjolras kisses Grantaire.

And for a moment,

                 one fleeting, beautiful moment,

                                                         all of the pain

                                                                                       just

                                                                                                          _stops_.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let it be known that the idea for this has been simmering at the back of my brain for what must be half a year now.  
> Let it also be known that I probably should have had a beta check this, but it's 6am and I'm feeling reckless. Also lazy.  
> Let it further be known that I am [cityelf](http://cityelf.tumblr.com), and I like warm hugs.
> 
> Massive apologies for butchering the characters here. Grantaire with a saviour complex? I don't know what happened. I guess this counts as world building, though whether or not I'll revisit the mutant amis is anyone's guess really.  
> Now if you'll excuse me, I'm 17,000 words into some AU I never intended to write that is more a labour of hate than love... Watch this space!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! ;)


End file.
